


Fragmentation of the mind

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU-Richard Brook is real and Jim Moriarty is the creation of his mental health. What if Sherlock really was a fake, and had been using this to his advantage?<br/>------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>“If only,” He laughed, raising his hand to his cheek. The flesh was soft, tender. He wondered what it would feel like to rip it away, to have no face so he wouldn’t have to look like anyone. He could be more than Richard, he could be Jim too.  Oh, wouldn’t it be marvellous to have no face?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragmentation of the mind

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head the other night and as I don't recall seeing anything like this, I've decided to write it.
> 
> Apologies if It's bad, it's my first fic where I've really written about Richard/Jim. (And Seb.)
> 
> I haven't decided if I'm going to add another chapter, I'll leave that up to you to tell me.

_“There’s work to do,”_

“Sebas-“

_“He said nothing. Do it. Do it, or Holmes will kill you,”_

Ah, now how could he forget the threat from Holmes? ‘The Great Detective’, as everyone called him. He felt sorry for John. The man had been blinded by Holmes’s false powers of deduction; the real power was the power of knowledge from _him._ It was all so simple to get the information on John. Just a few visits as Jim and he had them on the floor, begging and screaming for mercy. 

_Because Jim is stronger than Richard will ever be._

Richard’s health was deteriorating, too fast for the mind to adjust and too slow on the outside for the eye to see. Once upon a time he was afraid to lose his mind, his job as a children’s entertainer, but he had Jim now. Jim had always been there for him, through thick and thin.

“Today I’m fine,” he whispered, smoothing his hair out across his head.  The mirror was not his friend; it often lied and stole away much of his time. He could rarely bear to see the monster who took his place in the mirror; he was no longer all Richard. He was Jim Moriarty _and_ Richard Brook. His perception of what was real and what was not, shattered.

It was exhausting.

“Richard, I fucking swear to God! You have to keep taking that medicine,”

He couldn’t hear Sebastian, not now he was making the transition to Jim. Jim was today, Richard another day. Sebastian would play along once he was in that suit, he would be his faithful assassin and body guard. Sebastian knew the real him, yet, he was reluctant to let him see it at the best of times. He feared all respect the sniper had for him would leave once he saw Richard’s softer nature.

Sebastian kept banging; banging on the door with such force. _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

 _He_ answered with tortured, pained, crazed screaming. No one could fix him; no one could make the monster disappear. Holmes was feeding the monster with tortured souls so it lived. It grew inside him and worsened with each passing day, and soon he feared he’d have no control.

But did he fear? Was it the monster he truly feared, or the prospect of losing himself and all control completely?

“Richard! I will come in there,” _Bang. Bang._ The sniper pushed against the door, grunting and cursing. He _had_ to get to Richard, before he did too much damage, before he destroyed the bathroom. He really was going to have to remove those mirrors if they pained Richard that much.

“The show,” Grunted Moran, giving the door one final shove. “The children need their stories, Rich. Only you can be their storyteller,” Nothing worked. Silence filled the air, inside Jim was breathing heavily, glaring at the reflection in the mirror.

“I will kick this fucking door in,”

 _“The show,”_ He shook, clenching his fists. “ _Fuck the show and fuck the children. Holmes needs this job done and I’m the only one who can do it. Not Richard, not ‘Jim from I.T.’ Just brilliant, old Jim Moriarty. Jim will fix it,”_

Looking up into the mirror once more, he saw the evil gleam in Jim’s eyes. That gleam was always there, even as children. When he pushed them off their swings; stole their toys; ate their biscuits and hurt them with words. They were such petty crimes, yet, all symptoms of the madness that lie within. If only his mother had listened, if only she had taken care of him…

 _“If only,”_ He laughed, raising his hand to his cheek. The flesh was soft, tender. He wondered what it would feel like to rip it away, to have no face so he wouldn’t have to look like anyone. He could be more than Richard, he could be Jim too.  Oh, wouldn’t it be marvellous to have no face?

No emotions to give you up, no face for people to laugh at, no face to show your fear; anguish and pain. If the flesh could tear away, as light and as easy as paper, he’d do it. He’d have done it a long time ago; perhaps in another spur of madness he’d do it. Pretending to be okay would have to suffice for now. He was a good enough actor to make them believe, but not Sherlock. The man saw his fear and took advantage of that.

One day he’d get Holmes to kill himself in a turn of events so… _surprising_ that _maybe_ Jim Moriarty could become real. For now the man named Jim was just in his head, taking over his voice and his action’s.  Richard, now Jim, looks in the mirror for too long. Long enough to drink in his tired feature’s and glazed eyes, long enough for him to drive his hand into the mirror and pull it out bloody,

“Make it stop!” Cries the thin voice of Richard, sometimes he escapes and throws Jim, but more often than not Jim overpowers him. “No…more,” he whimpers, driving his fist into the mirror again, and again and again. His hand is soon a bloody, messy pulp.  But at least the mirror has gone, the last one in the house and the last one he’ll allow himself to look upon.

Such fragmentation to the mind is lethal, even if only in the smallest of doses. 


End file.
